I need the Tardis, y’all. I, the tree-hugging hippie, would like to go back a couple of years to spread lube on the floor in just the right spot so that Trump can slip and hit his head on something, like a gold toilet. Either outcome, death or traumatic brain injury, and the accompanying guilt for me would be preferable to the intense “oh, my fucking shit, the world is ending” feelings I’m having today.